


Simple Men Live Complicated Lives

by PureAU



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Constellations, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Korean Keith (Voltron), M/M, POV Third Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, War Hero Lance, Writer Keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9689567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PureAU/pseuds/PureAU
Summary: "I want you to believe me before writing any further. I was the sharpshooter of team Volton and when I say I defended the universe I mean it."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be funny ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Tengo un [Tumblr](allodoxia.tumblr.com)

“I believe in luck: otherwise all the guys who get the girls I’m after wouldn’t have been successful,” the man in front of him laughs breathily. 

 

“I like it, but it’s too much like Jean Cocteau for my tastes,” his voice is jovial. That is to be expected, it usually is, but today it sounds even happier than normal. Like there is sunshine radiating from his vocal cords warming everything around him.  

 

The other man scratches out the slanted words with an easy smile. They have been at this all day and the words on the page are slated to only get sillier and sillier the longer he attempts to come up with them, “That’s who I was going for. Shame you can’t appreciate art when you hear it.” 

 

“Sometimes I worry about you, Mullet,” the nickname carries no venom. Not like it used to. It is not unusual for him to receive such compliments from the man but that does not stop the soft, dusty pink blush from covering the high apples of his cheeks and across his nose.

 

His tone is biting when he answers, “Worry somewhere else,” but he does not mean it to be malicious. For someone who is getting paid he often spends too much time quipping smart remarks or shamelessly flirting with his employer. Neither of which he sees himself stopping anytime soon and both of which seem to be embraced with open arms by him. 

 

His employer is quite the anomaly. He is handsome no one can deny that; his eyes are small and a brilliant blue and his face triangular but never without a smile although the type of smile depends on the kind of day. He is intelligent but does not seem to believe so and accomplished for being as young as he is; no older than his employee himself. Despite that intelligence he hired Keith Kogane of all people, an aspiring novelist, young, bright-eyed, to ghostwrite his memoir. Something Keith still does not understand even with all the time he has spent with the man. 

 

Lance McClain - fighter pilot, a man’s man and ladies man alike, defender of the universe.

 

Keith almost scratches that down on the sheet of paper full of opening lines, but collects himself. The list of ways he could open the telling of Lance’s honestly ridiculous life story is embarrassingly long. After he had received the job offer he had been so excited to impress the man he would be writing for that he had spent the whole night outlining ways he could spin the tale. Lance had put the green light on a few ways the chronology could be formated and outright refused a couple more, but then he said something that nearly shattered Keith’s confidence in this job.

 

“How are you going to catch my readers attention?” Lance had asked all slow blinks and bright smiles. Keith had almost asked him to repeat the question out of shock. This was a biography not some novel that needed to be flourished with pretty words and bait to make someone pick it up and never put it down. The facts were interesting enough. 

 

“I, um,” Keith stuttered through multiple sentence beginnings, a parallel to how he would stumble through opening the memoir. He did not have an answer.

 

Lance laughed good naturedly, “You think about it, Mullet. We’ll get there together.” 

 

Keith is muttering about how kind his boss is despite his war stories when Lance tells him he should go home for the night. Which he would be grateful for if he thought he deserved to go home without really accomplishing anything. The memoir was virtually done. A first chapter, a hook, line and sinker opening, a few edits here and there to tie it all together that is all it needed before it could be sent off to the editor. Seven months of grueling research and conversations long into the night just to be foiled by a simple line. Keith is going to pull his hair out.

 

Lance gives him a warm hug at the door so crushing that Keith can feel several pairs of ribs. He mentally notes that he should make extra bibimbap to bring with him for next week's meeting. Lance would like it. 

 

Lance likes most things Keith does. Both of them are mildly aware of this but are enjoying their slow, steady descent into intimacy like the bright fire of a summer sunset fading to a heavy denim then a deep black. Comforting and beautiful and so,  _ so _ plain that there is no room for them to complain once night settles around them. They want to fall quietly in love like everyone else does. 

 

If he can give nothing else to Lance it is the normalcy in which they fall together. He did not get to experience most things as they come. A cargo pilot forced to learn to fight with a week's notice. A terrible, bloody war that left just as many scared as it did dead. An invasion from an  _ alien _ race. If Keith had not lived through it he would have called bullshit. Lance was made a war hero; a front lines soldier on team Voltron who personally aided in kicking the ass of any alien scumbag who wanted to take Earth away from its good people. He wanted to commemorate that experience with a novel even if it did not sell well. There must have been something cathartic about him telling Keith about his soldier days while he scribbled, typed, voice recorded his every word or Lance might have done it himself. 

 

Keith takes his phone out on his walk back to his less than desirable apartment. It is about an hours walk from Lance's two bedroom one bath ranch so he uses the time to brainstorm. 

 

 _Space Invaders_ _has less of a ring to it when you're the one living the gam_ e. 

He smiles at that line in particular. Keith does not consider himself very funny, but he thinks that it sounds pretty clever. He jots down a few more for good measure if not mostly to just feel more like he deserved to leave before midnight. 

 

The apartment is cold when he walks in from the early February chill. Keith curses his lack of foresight and reaches around blindly for the knob on the space heater that spans the length of the wall nearest the door. He’ll be cold for a while, but it should be warm before it is time for him to go to bed. The loft style room had a habit of ruining the circulation of heat which usually just pooled in the high ceiling. Unfortunate for his living and kitchen area but it created Dante’s sixth inferno in the lofted room space. Lance always keeps a comfortable house something Keith takes for granted. The study in which they spend most of their time is cozy, soft and just downright  _ warm _ .

 

Keith neatly puts away his outerwear until he is left in nothing but a thick pair of joggers and a loose black tee. Ankle socks protect him from the biting cold of his hardwood as he crosses the room to set his dull drawstring bag on the low coffee table in front of his dingy couch. He plans to make whatever cup of noodles is left his pantry then sit down to type a few first chapter drafts. Lance cannot stop him from working in his own home. 

 

_ Todo tiene solución, menos la muerte. Y impuestos. _

 

He sniggers to himself. He is not sure it fits in with the rest of the memoir, but it works in something about Lance that he enjoys: his connection to his roots and his sarcasm. If Lance likes it they can find a way to mold the chapters around it it. 

_ I attempted the impossible: talking an alien to death. _

 

_ If you just look up you can be lead from world to world without ever having to leave the Earth.  _

 

_ The first picture book I was ever given was the constellations. _

 

Lance is not really one for seriousness. In fact he makes light of most of the Galra situation during his retelling of the war. But, he is a sucker for pretty words and a prettier face, so Keith secretly hopes that the ones that he believes sound more poetic pass. 

 

Keith falls asleep midway through a fifth draft of chapter one.

✩✫✩

“What have you brought me today, Pretty Boy?”  Lance opens their time together with a smile. 

 

Keith gently hands him a warm slow cooker when he crosses the threshold, “Is that an insult?” Lance chooses not to answer as he moves to the kitchen with a spring in his step taking in deep lungfuls of the delicious smelling mixed rice. He tells Keith to go ahead to the study, he will bring him a bowl momentarily, take his time setting up. Keith sighs, but goes.

 

With a mouthful of bibimbap, some to the side of his lips and the rest of the forkful on its way to stuff more down his throat Lance begins the week like he has for the last several months, “Give me the three best lines and two best drafts and let’s work through this thing, Mullet.” 

 

_ Don’t bother reading this. I am not a man of my word and this is not a memoir so much as it is the fever dream of a deranged lunatic. There are better ways to spend your time. _

Lance’s booming laugh fills the room as Keith stares on in horror at the first line of draft two.  The glare he has directed at the cursor at the end of the third period should really halt its blinking. He forgot about this draft. It was written late last night and he was so done with Lance’s insane life story that it just - it practically wrote itself. He tries to explain this to Lance, but he is too busy having a hay day. “A lunatic huh?” 

 

“I’m sorry!” Keith stresses. Lance tells him he is not or he would not have wrote it. Words never lie. Which okay, false, and also hurtful.

 

“Keith,” Lance finally addresses him, mostly sober but with a twinkle in his eye, “I want to use that line.” 

 

“Are you sure we shouldn’t use the one about death and taxes?” Lance nods his head. He reads through the drafts Keith chose trying to decide which one he should tack the introduction onto. It takes him ten minutes to decide he does not like either of them so he begins scrolling through the green folder of documents. Lance believes that green might mean that he liked that draft at one point in time which Keith confirms when he asks. Green means go, yellow means maybe, red means Keith what the fuck. 

 

Keith detests the what the fuck folder.

 

“The draft titled 15/12 please,” Lance turns the laptop back to Keith with the mouse already hovering over the document. The draft does not stick out in his mind but it must have been memorable to Lance. After copying the dreadful line and pasting it to the beginning of the document where  _ Opening Line Goes Here _ used to be typed he turns the device back to Lance for inspection. He grins in satisfaction and that’s all she wrote. 

✩✫✩

Lance kisses Keith for the first time after he sends the memoir to the editor. 

 

It is slow and soft - everything Keith is not. Lance holds his wrist lightly, it two first fingers brushing against his pulsepoint in sure, timed strokes. His lips are surprisingly smooth a harsh contrast to Keith’s slightly chapped ones. He moves slowly against Keith’s like they have all the time in the world and he guesses they do. They are free of responsibility, only have each other, always will have each other now. 

 

Lance pulls back with a smile as though Keith just gave him one of the best presents he could ask for. Keith guesses his face is doing the same thing because his cheeks hurt and Lance is kissing him again and they are giggling like teenagers instead of adults with respectable jobs and taxes. 

✩✫✩

Lance lives like he is constantly walking on glass. Uncomfortable, as though every step may be the one that splits him in a rush of gore and his own inability to put himself back together. 

 

He is unable to process and accept the atrocities he went through. 

 

Keith, as much as Lance wants to deny the position he stuck his ghostwriter in, is a poorly adhered bandage. He will come off in Lance’s sleep or in the shower or get lost in between the hours of the day and everything Lance has worked hard to contain will come spilling out again because he is frozen in time.

 

But, that does not stop him from placing easy kisses on his nose, his eyelids, his mouth. Keith turns various delicious shades of red. The hot blood pumping beneath his ivory cheeks could so easily paint his delicate skin a sickening shade of muddy brown and wide eyes would - 

 

Lance hates what saving humanity did to him.

 

Sometimes Keith gives him this look that makes him want to vomit. His eyebrows crease slightly in worry and his lips pull tight like he wants to ask something, but it too afraid of what  _ Lance might do _ . Lance knows in his heart that the sweet concern should be touching and he should lay it to rest, but ever since the memoir went to the editor for review it is like he just cannot settle himself down. It is like there is something burning inside of him.

 

“Are you okay?” Keith whispers in the fragile darkness of his loft apartment. The duvet is too soft and the open windows just above the queen mattress laid out on the floor bring in too much unwanted noise. He does not have the heart to ask Keith to shut out the late spring warmth. He can see how the humidity has poofed his hair from where his head lays inches in front of his own just barely outside of the cocoon of blankets he has wrapped himself in. It should be  _ cute _ dammit. He mumbles out a fine.

 

Keith closes his eyes when Lance places a kiss in the middle of his forehead. “Okay,” he murmurs to the darkness.

 

Okay.

✩✫✩

Lance often names various constellations anytime he can catch them and thinks Keith will be able to get a good glimpse as well. Tonight is one of those nights. They are laying on Lance’s roof the summer heat palpable between them while he points at various stars. Keith never sees what he is pointing towards, just looks in the general direction of his finger, but he enjoys this time with Lance nonetheless.

 

“There is  _ Lyra _ .” 

 

“Pretty.”

 

“You liar,” Lance giggles. Keith agrees easily.

 

Their memoir just got turned down for the second time, but the third publisher seems promising. That had caused a rough start to their night, but things seem to be moving along quite better now. 

 

Things hardly move smoothly these days. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome - Lance had informed in - plagued the retired vet. Keith had promised that he would do everything in his power to make Lance’s life more enjoyable, which Lance said he already did, but it was putting a toll on the both of them. Keith did not know what he signed up for and Lance? Lance just feels guilty. 

 

It was -  _ is _ \- depressing. 

 

“Lyra contains the fifth brightest star in the sky,” Lance recites, “ and is associated with the myth of Orpheus who attempted to save his wife Eurydice from the underworld. However, he forgot that he was not to turn to gaze upon her until the had both reached the upper world, and after he passed back through to the world of the living, turned around and watched Eurydice vanish from his sight for good.”  

 

Lance hopes Keith will not become his Eurydice.

✩✫✩

A year after the release of their memoir - Lance refuses to let him not be a part of it - he gets a tattoo of circinus: the compass constellation. He gets it because it is simple. It lacks myth; a small, faint constellation in the southern sky given a name only because it reminded an astronomer of its likliness to a drafting tool.

 

Alpha Circini is something of an anomaly; a beautiful rapidly oscillating Ap star that shines brighter than any other stars in the night sky. Despite its deceptively simple appearance circinus contains three open clusters as well as a nebula and houses an annual meteor shower each year if only one pays enough attention to it. 

 

It is the only constellation Keith is able to pick out in the sky. 

 

It may have also been the one Lance got most excited about. 

 

Lance, six months after the tattoo, lays himself across Keith’s back in their shared bedroom and whispers something that brings a slow smile to Keith’s face, “I want to ghostwrite your memoir.” 

 

“I don’t have anything interesting for you to write about,” he answers back just as soft, turning the page of  _ Milk and Honey  _ carefully. Lance rolls off Keith’s small frame and puffs out his cheeks.

 

“I think-” he changes course; “It’s not about  _ you _ specifically having anything for me to write about,” he admits, “but, well, the best I ever felt about  _ me _ was when you were writing down everything that made me, me without batting an eye.” Keith  _ knew _ that there was something therapeutic about their writing sessions. “So, I just want to know what makes Keith Kogane, Keith Kogane. No strings attached; we don’t even have to publish it if you don’t want to.”

 

“Will it help you?” Keith asks. No bite or bitterness, just genuine curiosity.

 

And this time, instead of bitten off fine’s and sighed okay’s, Lance says yes. 

 

_ It’s not easy writing about nothing, but I want you to believe me when I say I have led a complicated life. I am just a simple man. It’s kind of what we do.  _

**Author's Note:**

> In the first ending I killed Lance. Then I changed it. 
> 
> Lemme know abt any mistakes I tried my best.


End file.
